For The Best
by ultraviolet128
Summary: Sherlock decides life is no longer worth living when John moves out of 221B. First slash fic  maybe just one-sided, maybe not! . Rated for bad language and suicide. Also mention of drugs.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all! **

**Just a quick drabble that popped into my head and refused to go away – possibly more chapters in the future, possible slash later on (this is my first slash fanfic, so go easy on me!)**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock or John. More's the pity. We could have such fun together.**

**Warnings: Angst, foul language, and graphic suicide-ness – sorry!**

_Sherlock_

The flat is quiet. Too quiet.

Not the peaceful, good, companionable silence, when John is typing his blog, and I am thinking or pretending to sleep or watching him type just because it makes me feel oddly peaceful.

Not the silence when John knows I am trying to figure out a particularly complicated mystery, and is waiting with bated breath for my brain to produce the answer to whatever riddle has been set before us.

Not even the bad silence, when I have upset John and he isn't talking to me, because even then I know that he will come downstairs after a while and somehow we will be friends again.

It is quiet because John has left me.

I don't know what I've done, but he has packed all his jumpers and his jeans and his laptop into suitcases, and he has gone to the other side of London, to 'get some space'. I know it is stupid and childish and illogical, but I like John being here, like the fact that someone _can _put up with me as a flatmate after all, that there is someone on this God-forsaken earth who doesn't think I am a psychopath or a liar or freak.

Except that now he is gone.

Before I met John, I thought my life was perfectly satisfactory. I liked the silence. I liked the solitude.

And then John arrived, and filled a hole in my life that I had never even known existed. I laughed with him, watched rubbish television with him, and we saved each other's lives on a weekly basis.

And now he's gone, and the hole is gaping in my chest, and it hurts more than I thought something could hurt.

I don't know why it does, I don't _understand_, but it is horrible and I feel sick and I just want him back _now_ and I will try and make him tea and he will pretend to like it and pour it over Mrs. Hudson's aspidistra when he thinks I am not looking.

I pull my hair, which hurts, but it isn't the same kind of hurt, and I just want to make it stop but John threw away my cocaine. And I _hate _him because I want the pain to stop and he got rid of the drugs so I can't stop it, and if he hadn't turned up in the first place with his ridiculous jumpers and his psychosomatic limp then I wouldn't be feeling this in the first place.

I know full well that John should be dull, should be boring, should be too pedestrian to even register in my brain. But he isn't, and all I want is to see him again and shout at him to fetch my phone which it's barely inches from me and watch that world-weary smile grace his countenance.

I should know that no one could ever care about me, because I have acted the role of the high-functioning sociopath for so long that I have forgotten the difference between the pretence and the reality. Because I am obnoxious and rude and _worthless_. I am pathetic and useless and _nothing_. Normally I am arrogant and I don't care what people think of me, but now I feel horribly vulnerable.

I don't like other people. They are boring or stupid or both. Some of them, like Anderson, hate me because I am cleverer than them, and I hate them back. Lestrade tolerates me because I am useful to him, and good for his crime statistics that he sends off to Head Office. Mycroft is forced to care because he'd made that stupid promise to our mother on her deathbed. Molly cares because she still holds that ridiculous infatuation for me, which I do my best to discourage, because decisions shouldn't be based on emotion, they should be based on _reason_ and feelings affect the brain.

_Why am I feeling this way? Why am I going to pieces over such a stupid, boring ex-soldier with a tremor in his hand?_

I answer my own question.

_Because he is my only friend._

And the knowledge that he doesn't care about me after all is like a knife in my stomach.

I lie on the sofa, and close my eyes, until the hurt fades a little. I feel strangely disembodied. Thoughts swirl in my heads like confused eddies of water. I don't want to go on like this, with this pain, with this horrible throbbing in my head. Life is dull, dull, dull – a terrible monotony that frustrates me and drains my life away. And now, without John, I am not sure if I can be bothered to solve cases for people who openly despise me, not sure I can bear to be insulted by Anderson and Donovan _again _because of what a freak I am.

I stand slowly and fetch a sheet of notepaper from my desk.

_John_

I feel bad – of course I do. I feel awful. I don't want to leave him, but to remain in the flat, feeling the way I feel… It wouldn't work, and I don't want to lose our friendship through a moment's stupidity. It's for the best. I know I could never explain it to him, so I haven't tried. I had just said something about needing some space, and left before he could talk me out of it with his penetrating blue-green-grey stare.

How could I have explained to him that my heartbeat accelerates whenever I see him? How could I tell him that my breath catches in my throat when he fixes me with those piercing eyes? How could I announce that all I want to do sometimes is to hold him in my arms and nuzzle my face in his coal-black curls? He wouldn't understand, and I know all too well that he has never had a proper friend before, like alone been in a romantic relationship. I can't push him into something like that.

I look down at the photograph that is sitting on the kitchen table of my new flat beside me. Sherlock doesn't know I have taken it. I had been pretending to be an American tourist during the Case of the Disillusioned Accountant, and was therefore randomly snapping away while keeping an eye out for suspects – Sherlock had assured me that the killer was six feet tall with a limp. And when I had been idly flicking back through the photographs later on that evening, once the murderer was safely behind bars, I had found that one of my pictures was a perfect shot of Sherlock. His raven hair was half over his face, his brow furrowed with concentration, his eyes burning, his skin paper-white, looking gaunter than ever.

He is beautiful.

Somehow the revelation that I am, at the very least, bisexual, has not hit me as hard as I had expected it to. What had bothered me is that it is with Sherlock whom I have become infatuated. Not that I am surprised. He is undoubtedly a very attractive man, and that isn't even allowing for the fact that he is also dazzlingly intelligent.

But the point is that I know my feelings for Sherlock will never be reciprocated. Ever. Simply because I know he just doesn't _do_ those kind of feelings. Not that he is a sociopath – I had quickly established that that was simply an act to make sure people kept their distance from him – but he is immensely cautious of any social interaction, any physical contact. I would greet any other of my friends with a handshake at the very least, and possibly even a hug. I dread to think what Sherlock's reaction would be if I were to try and hug him. He would probably throw me across the room in self-defence – the man is deceptively strong, despite his waif-like frame, and I have no doubt that he would be perfectly capable of doing so.

I rub my face with my hands thoughtfully. I know that Sherlock cares about me – his reaction after Moriarty had left the swimming pool for the first time had proven that to me, and his relief when Mycroft and half of MI5 had burst in before he had had to blown us all up was obvious. For a few days after the pool episode, he had been a little quiet and subdued. I had wondered if was analysing how and where Moriarty had escaped to, or whether he was pondering how close we had both come to death.

I realise that sitting here for hours on end thinking about my ex-flatmate really isn't helpful, and decide to unpack some of my stuff, which still sits in boxes about my new living room. It is cold and lonely, and completely free of both any dubious chemistry-related equipment and lanky consulting detectives overdosing on coffee.

I finish unpacking the files of notes I have made on Sherlock's cases and look around for the black suitcase in which I had placed all my clothes. I cannot see it, and begin searching more methodically.

Finally, I swear under my breath. I must have left it in my room back in Baker Street. I consider my options. I will need to go and get it at some point, and I feel that biting the bullet immediately will be less awful

Sighing, I pull on my coat and call a cab.

_Sherlock_

The bath water is warm, and I relax into it, staring up at the ceiling.

It will be an experiment, I tell myself. An investigation.

I pick up the knife.

_John_

I unlock the door and peer in cautiously. The flat is silent, and Sherlock is apparently out on a case. I don't know whether to be glad that he isn't here so I don't have to endure the inevitable confrontation and interrogation, or sad that I won't get the opportunity to see his face again. I decide it will be best just to sneak upstairs, get my case, and flee back to 37 Banbury Way.

That's when I se the note on the table.

For some reason, I feel compelled to look at it – I want to hear Sherlock's voice again, even if only on paper.

_To Mrs. Hudson,_

_ If my estimations are correct then you will find this note on Wednesday evening at approximately 6pm. I can assure you that by this time it will all be over, and only ask you to contact the necessary authorities. I would also warn you please not to go upstairs, as I have no wish to cause you further distress. I would be most grateful if you were to notify John of my death – his number is below. Thank you for everything, and don't worry – I have already paid this month's rent into your account. This is for the best._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Sherlock Holmes._

I go completely cold. It is as if a lead weight has been dropped into my stomach. For a second I remain completely frozen, and then my unwilling legs leap into action.

"Sherlock! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…"

I scramble upstairs, cursing in desperation, and wrench open the door of his room. It is in its normal state of chaos, but is completely Sherlock-free. I pause for a mere fraction of a second, and then see that the light in the bathroom is on.

"Oh God, please, no…"

I go to open the door, but it has been bolted from the inside. Cursing frantically, I ram it with my shoulder, sending a bolt of searing pain through the injured flesh. The door bursts open, and I stumble in.

Sherlock.

Lying in the bath, fully dressed, save for his shoes, which he has neatly removed and placed on the lid of the toilet seat. I realise that he hadn't wanted to subject himself to the final indignity of being found naked.

Ebony curls float about his face like a halo, his face paler than ever, his eyes closed, as if he is sleeping.

Both of his wrists have been slashed, from his palm to the inside of his elbow – foul gaping wounds on his too-thin limbs.

The bath is full of a mixture of tepid water and his blood.

"Fuck, no, please, no…"

My breathing is ragged; I feel sick and weak, falling to my knees beside him, one hand fumbling for a pulse, the other pulling my mobile from my pocket.

"Yes, yes, I need an ambulance… It's my flatmate, he's slashed his wrists, oh fuck, oh God…"

I can't find a pulse, and my hands are covered in Sherlock's blood…

_"Is he breathing?"_

"I don't know, I…"

There. Stop. Wait. Is that just my own pulse beating in my fingers? No. Very weak and thready, but it is there.

"Oh thank God… I've got a pulse…"

I feel faint and dizzy, my head spinning.

There is so much blood and it is all my fault…

I realise the operator is talking to me again.

_"Can you give me the address you're at now, please, sir?"_

"221B Baker Street – please come quickly!"

I throw the phone to the floor, ignoring the woman's faint, tinny voice, and wrench off my jacket, clamping it around Sherlock's left arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding. I try to raise it up in the air to minimise the blood loss, but the bath water sloshes and his face is pushed under the water.

I seize him by the armpits and pull him clumsily from the bath, slopping red water everywhere. He hardly weighs anything, and I wonder vaguely when was the last time that he ate. He stirs very slightly, and I find myself talking rapidly to him, gibbering nonsense as I try to bind up his arm with my jacket.

"It's all right, Sherlock, you'll be all right, you're OK…"

His eyes don't open. "Leave me…" he whispers, and I am shocked at how weak his voice is.

"No, I won't, I…"

"I want to die." The words are said with such finality, his voice so clear and quiet, that it breaks my heart.

"No, for fuck's sake, Sherlock!"

I pull off my shirt as well, tie that about his right arm, and yank both arms up at right angles to his body, hoping, praying with every fibre of my being that it will stop the bleeding.

_ Let it not be too late._

_ He can't die here._

**I know it's not my best, and it's certainly not at all polished as I wrote it in one sitting and my proof-reading can be dodgy at best (not to mention that I reckon both of them are more than verging on being terribly OOC), but inspiration struck and I had to act on it! Sorry for how convoluted Sherlock's piece is at the beginning; it was just how I imagined his thoughts working.**

** Should I bother with another chapter? Please review and tell me what you thought! xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again! Second chapter – this one's a bit longer…**

**DISCLAIMER: I still don't own either of them, or there would be far more cuddling involved in their friendship. Lots and lots more. **

**Warnings: More swearing – sorry! And also possibly incorrect medical details, but I bluffed through as best I could! Enjoy!**

_John_

I stir slightly and wake from an unrefreshing sleep.

He looks terribly vulnerable, lying there on the bed, his skin still pale and clammy. They have taken his clothes and put him in a hospital gown that hangs off him like some kind of ridiculous cape – he looks like a living skeleton.

Living. That's the important thing.

My emotions flick from terror, to anger, to sorrow.

What would I have done if I had lost him?

How could I have go on?

How could he do this to me?

How could he be such a selfish bastard?

Doesn't he know how many people this act affects?

Why did he do it?

Does he really feel so worthless?

Does he feel his life is so pointless?

Why the hell didn't I notice something sooner?

Why wasn't I there to stop him?

I can't answer any of these questions. I can only watch the covers of his bed rise and fall as he breathes, and be thankful with every atom of my being that I forgot to take my suitcase to my new flat last night.

The paramedics finally arrived, and strapped him on to a trolley, and then it was a mad, horrifying dash to the hospital while the paramedics poured IV fluids into him to keep him alive. At one point, he opened his eyes, and just lay there, staring straight ahead, as we tried to save his life, ignoring us completely. That was the most chilling part of the whole terrible experience. It was as if he were willing us to leave him alone, to leave him to die. The thought makes my chest feel tight.

We sprinted into the Accident and Emergency Department just as he went into VT, and then cardiac arrest. And then there was a mess of shouting doctors and defibrillators and blood transfusions, and one of the nurses took me out of the room he was in because I was shaking and covered in blood and getting in the doctors' way.

The whole thing was like a horrible nightmare I never wanted to relive.

I sat in the ED waiting room in only my vest, having washed my bloodied hands so thoroughly that the skin was threatening to come off.

And then Mycroft arrived, complete with perfect suit and umbrella. Somehow I wasn't surprised that he was keeping surveillance on his brother, and an ambulance arriving at 221B would hardly have escaped his notice.

"I take it he's tried to kill himself?"

I managed to nod.

He shook his head disapprovingly. "Mummy would be so upset."

"Would be?" I inquired, wanting to concentrate on something other than the horrifying image that just wouldn't leave me – Sherlock, lying in the morgue, face paper white…

"Oh, yes, she killed herself when Sherlock was a boy."

I swallowed uncomfortably, realising anew just how little I knew about Sherlock Holmes.

There was the electronic ping of a mobile phone, and Mycroft frowned in irritation. "I am very sorry, Dr. Watson, but I need to be going. An important Czechoslovakian diplomat is flying in and I can't really miss the meeting… Here, take this…"

He thrust a clean shirt into my hand – evidently his men had informed him of my state of undress.

"Erm… Thanks…"

He gave me a critical glare. "You should go back to Baker Street, Dr. Watson. There's not much you can do here."

Then I had punched him in his nose.

He took it unexpectedly well, dabbing away the blood with a clean white handkerchief. "Don't worry, I understand you are in a state of emotional distress. Please contact me if there are any further developments."

And then he left.

So then I sat for what seemed like hours on a cold, hard, plastic chair, earning myself strange looks from other patients and nurses alike, shaking and on the verge of tears.

Some time later, a doctor came to talk to me.

"We believe that Mr. Holmes is out of immediate danger," he said, and those words were enough to cause my legs to nearly collapse. "We successfully restarted his heart. He has lost a great deal of blood, but we have given him several transfusions, and he will almost certainly pull through."

"Thank you," I murmured quietly, and I don't believe any words had ever been more heartfelt.

"Someone will be coming down from the psyche ward tomorrow in order to assess his mental state," he continued, in a slightly quieter voice. "I understand a nurse is now with him to ensure no repetition of… well… his earlier actions. And well…"

He coughed awkwardly.

"What is it?" I had pressed him.

"He appears to be rather… undernourished."

I looked away awkwardly and shuffled my leg. It had begun to hurt again. "Well… He… erm… He's not big on eating," I said lamely, and watched as the doctor frowned and made a note on his clipboard.

"Can I go and see him?"

"By all means – he's quite stable. Unless you would rather get a coffee or something from the hospital canteen - Mr. Watson, isn't it? It is getting rather late…"

"It's Dr. Watson, and no, I'm not hungry."

He smiled in recognition of a fellow medical professional. "In which case, I'll take you to see him. Though he's sleeping now, I believe." We discussed a few more details of his wellbeing and then I followed him to ICU, to find my flatmate lying in a clean neat hospital bed in a gown that didn't fit him, with tubes protruding from the white bandages that swathed his arms. I couldn't bear to look at them. They served as a horrible reminder of earlier, when that white skin had been marred with streaks of red…

His bed was near the window, and I looked out of it. Night had fallen over London – a million tiny lights flickered like glowing eyes from countless hotels, cinemas, offices and homes.

I texted Mycroft curtly to inform him that his brother was out of danger, and then, to my embarrassment, I fell asleep at Sherlock's bedside, despite the lack of comfort the plastic chair provided.

It is morning now, and Sherlock is still sleeping. It feels strange to see him like this – like a small child, wrapped in blankets to keep him warm. The beep of the monitors is regular and reassuring. There is a soft knock on the door and a nurse enters, giving me a sympathetic smile, which I return. She begins to check Sherlock's blood pressures and dressings, and I excuse myself to go and get a coffee.

It is still early, and the canteen is fairly empty. I grab a coffee and a sandwich. I feel strangely guilty about tucking in when I know Sherlock is still lying passed out upstairs, but my stomach is beginning to rumble painfully, and I can't ignore the needs of my body like he seems to be able to.

I am looking around for a quiet place to sit and eat when I hear a voice calling my name. For a horrible moment I think it is a doctor coming to tell me that somehow Sherlock has deteriorated while I have been away, but then I realise it is only Lestrade, greeting me with a grin, clutching a bacon butty.

We've become quite good friends since I met him for the first time during a Study in Pink. Any poor idiot who has to deal with Sherlock on a regular basis, (and especially those who manage to do so without hating him), tends to stick with other poor idiots who are in a similar predicament. Lestrade's a good copper and a good bloke – the amount of ribbing he gets from Sherlock for being "incredibly dull" and from the other guys at the Met for "dragging in a psychopathic civilian to do his job for him", I'm surprised he hasn't gone mad, but he still manages to be relatively jovial.

"John! What are you doing here?"

Shit. He doesn't know.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, evading the question.

"Oh, some fancy accountant got himself beaten up last night – I came to take a statement, but he's still in theatre, apparently. Complications. So I'm at a bit of a loose end. You?"

"Sherlock," I say quietly.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Blood hell. You know I care about the bloke, but you must be a bloody saint to be able to live with him. What has he done now? No, don't tell me. One of his bloody chemistry experiments? Or was it a suspect of his? – I always said that smart mouth would get him into trouble one day. Or… Oh God, he hasn't been leaping across rooftops again, has he? Or has he upset Mrs. Hudson – I heard she…"

"Stop."

To my surprise, my voice is calm and authoritative. Lestrade stops.

"He's tried to kill himself," I say. I don't trust myself to look at Lestrade, because I might do someone stupid, like start crying.

"Fuck," he says quietly. "Fuck. Sorry, mate. I didn't know."

"Don't worry," I say.

"How did…? I mean… what happened…?"

"I moved out," I say, and my voice is hollow and exhausted.

"Oh," Lestrade says, and I know he is itching to know what Sherlock did to make me do it, but I can't answer, and all I can think is how _stupid _I was, and how ignorant of the effect my actions could have on another person, which, in a way, makes me just as bad as Sherlock, unconscious upstairs, unaware of the torture _he's_ put _me_ through.

"I left something behind," I say, and cough to try and get rid of the horrible tightness that the memory of the fear brings back to me. "And I came back, and found him."

"Fuck," Lestrade says again.

"He'd slit his wrists," I manage to choke out, and then I dig my hand into my mouth to stop the tears seeping out, clenching my eyes shut. I feel the reassuring weight of Lestrade's hand on my shoulder.

"Stupid bastard," Lestrade says, and I'm not sure whether he's talking about Sherlock, or me, but it makes me cough out a laugh anyway. I wipe the tears away, and take a fortifying gulp of coffee.

"Is he… Is he going to be all right?" Lestrade asks cautiously, and I nod weakly.

"The doctors say he's out of danger. Though it was… touch and go last night. He lost more than a third of the blood in him."

"Shit, John." Lestrade sounds sincere and shocked. "It must have been fucking awful. You could have called me."

"I didn't think."

I drain my coffee and take a few bites of my sandwich, wanting to finish it as fast as possible so I can get back to Sherlock. The thought of him dying while I enjoy my breakfast makes me feel sick and weak. I want to get back, just so I can sit and watch the up-and-down of his chest, to prove to myself that he's still alive.

Lestrade and I eat in silence, and then, by tacit consent, we leave the canteen and go back up to the ward. I can tell the doctors aren't keen on us both being there, but they don't object.

We reach his room, and I push open the door, somehow ridiculously afraid that the bed will be empty. But it isn't. Sherlock is still lying there - mad, intelligent, brilliant, vibrant, _alive_ Sherlock, lying in a hospital bed like a broken doll.

I return to my seat beside his bed, and Lestrade pulls up a chair as well. I can tell that he's thinking about how little he really knows this man, whose tactless and cold exterior shields something far more vulnerable and insecure and _human_.

I don't know how long we sit there, but eventually Lestrade stands. "I'll tell whoever needs to know, and no one else," he says quietly. "D'you want me to talk to Mrs. Hudson?"

I nod gratefully. "Thanks."

He nods sympathetically, and then places a hand on Sherlock's. His long, pale, spidery fingers are resting on the outside of the covers, folded neatly.

"Get well soon," he says gruffly. "I need your help on a case. Identical triplets, would you believe it? So you better get out of here sharpish, because I know you think we're such a load of incompetents that we can't do it without you."

He gives Sherlock's hand an uncertain pat, and leaves.

I am left sitting beside my unconscious flatmate.

It occurs to me that I haven't thought to touch him, to do something as simple as touch his hand. Steeling myself, I reached forwards and brush my fingers over his hand. His skin is unexpectedly warm and soft, though there are calluses and imperfections here and there, no doubt the result of one of his experiments.

I wonder if I am somehow violating him, touching him like this without his permission – he'd never condone it if he were awake - but then I pull myself back to reality. It's only his goddamned hand, after all.

"Sherlock?" I ask quietly.

_Don't be stupid, John, he can't hear you. He's asleep. You've been trying to get him to rest for three weeks solid and now he's asleep – leave him be!_

I ignore my own advice.

"Sherlock?"

And then, incredibly, his long fingers twitch under mine, and blue-green-grey eyes flicker. He draws in a long breath.

"_Sherlock_?" I ask frantically, and am instantly embarrassed at my enthusiasm. "I mean, um…"

His pale lips move. "Stop gibbering… What was Lestrade doing here?"

"What?"

"How is it, John, that I can wake from yet another dull-as-dishwater failed suicide attempt after having lost…" His head twitches. "I'd say… a third of my blood volume? Hard to tell. I lost track. Anyway, how is it that I wake up after all that and yet my brain is still five times faster than yours? I know Lestrade was here because I can smell his aftershave. I was enquiring as to _why_ he had been here."

I swallow. I had forgotten how utterly overwhelming I find Sherlock. I realise anew why it had been imperative for me to leave the flat – at this moment all I want to do is lean forward and kiss those pale, thin lips. He is so _alive _it's easy to forget everything that happened last night, lose myself in the excitement of Sherlock's personality, his lightning-fast intelligence, his sparkling eyes…

I also remember what an absolute bastard he is.

"Erm… He had a case, but the victim was still in theatre, so we bumped into each other and I had to tell him…"

"Fantastic," Sherlock sneers. "Now the whole of Met will know. And they thought I was a psychopath anyway."

Something else he has just said catches up in my brain. "Wait – you said "yet another dull suicide attempt" or something – Sherlock, have you tried to…"

The words catch in my throat.

"Have you tried to take your own life before?" I ask quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock says promptly.

"I didn't know… You didn't tell me."

"I have never asked for a blow-by-blow account of your stay in Afghanistan," Sherlock said sharply. "They were unpleasant experiences which I did not watch to think about. Is that surprising?"

"No… I mean, that's fine… I just…"

I feel like I am drowning in him – his beautiful, deep voice, his piercing eyes. I am finding it hard to think, let alone speak – not that that matters, because he will always be a million times more intelligent that me and I only remind myself of this when I open my stupid mouth.

"Did you call Mycroft?" Sherlock asks idly. "He has an irritating habit of wanting to know about these things."

I come back to reality with an effort. "Er… He turned up here, as a matter of fact."

"Oh?" Sherlock's eyes flash curiously.

"I'm afraid I punched him," I say regretfully. "He was only trying to help…"

"I utterly sympathise," Sherlock announces flippantly. "He is immensely aggravating at the best of times, as I no doubt am."

I blink in confusion.

"Honestly, John, you need to stop doing that – it makes you look like a startled rabbit."

I ignore the jibe. "How… How are you feeling?" I ask gently.

"Fantastic," Sherlock drawls sarcastically, and I wince.

"The doctors say you're underweight…"

"Boring. You know I hate eating."

"But Sherlock…"

"I'll have a sandwich when we get back to Baker Street, if you're really _that_ bothered. And, by the way – have you seen my phone? I want to text Molly – ask her if those ears she promised me are ready yet."

A burning tide of anger rises up in me. "I'm guessing you took it out of your pocket before you got in the bath and slit your wrists," I say coldly. "In which case, it's back in the flat."

"Oh." Sherlock looks disappointed for a moment. "No matter. I'll use yours."

I give something between a sob and a snort. Sherlock gives me a strange look.

"You're upset," he says decisively, though he looks a little puzzled.

"Well deduced," I snap, wrenching my hand away from his and standing

"Why?"

"How can you even ask that?" I snarl angrily. Sherlock looks surprised, and I make the effort to lower my voice. "I came back to the flat to pick up a suitcase I'd left behind, and I find you lying in a bath of your own blood… Fuck it, Sherlock, I thought… I thought you were going to die."

"I didn't," Sherlock chips in brightly. "And don't swear. You know I don't like it."

"Your heart stopped as we arrived in A and E," I say bitterly, my teeth clenched. Sherlock looks mildly intrigued.

"Really? In which case, I'm not such a failure after all. I wonder…"

"Fuck you!" I snarl at him, and limp out of the hospital room, tears stinging my eyes. My stupid leg is playing up again, despite the fact that I know there's nothing wrong with it. The pain is a constant reminder of Sherlock, of him tricking me into running out of the café without my cane when we'd only just met, just to prove a point.

I stand in the corridor, breathing deeply. I know I've shocked Sherlock, but somehow I can't bear to go back in there and hear him talk about his death like that. It physically hurts me.

"Ah, Dr. Watson?"

A pretty, female doctor reaches out to shake my hand, and I do so.

"Um… hi…"

"Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm Dr. Williams, from the psyche ward. I've come to assess Sherlock."

"Oh," I say stupidly.

"If you wouldn't mind just telling him I'm here, and then we'll get down to business – it often helps if a friend acts as a go-between – it can make them feel more relaxed."

She smiles encouragingly at me. She has long brown hair tied back in a professional ponytail, pleasant green eyes, and a sweet, round face. I don't want to see what Sherlock is going to do to distract her from him – I can tell it's going to be fairly dramatic.

"I go tell him," I murmur stupidly, and open the door.

Sherlock glances up as I enter.

_Sherlock_

John looks angry. I must admit - I quite like it when he's anger. It's better than upset, or worse, disappointed. He's annoyed with me for trying to kill myself, which is quite understandable. I'm annoyed with myself too, though that's more because I didn't manage to finish the job properly. Not that I feel like dying _now_, but it's more than a little embarrassing to be so utterly incompetent.

I decide to try and lighten the mood.

_John_

"Back already, John? Look at this – they've taken the strings from the blinds, so can't strangle myself with them. How novel!"

I try not to wince again. "The psychiatrist's here to see you," I say stiffly. His eyes light up.

"A psychiatrist? Marvellous. They're nearly always interesting. I was beginning to waste away in this tedium. Bring her in."

I go to the door and beckon Dr. Williams. She enters, and I can almost see the cogs of Sherlock's mind beginning to whir as he assesses, analyses, catalogues his data. His eyes gleam, his face goes oddly still.

"Hi, Sherlock, I'm Dr. Williams," she says gently, in what is meant to be a non-threatening way.

"Hi Kate, I'm Mr. Holmes," Sherlock replies, in exactly the same tone of voice. His pleasant smile is unsettling, and it clearly throws her for a moment.

"I've come to talk to you…"

"Do you know your husband is planning to leave you?" Sherlock asks, in the same cheerful voice.

"What? I'm sorry?"

Sherlock drops the smile. His face is blank and emotionless. "I was wondering – do you know and are faking your ignorance – perhaps denial? Or are you genuinely in the dark?"

Dr. Williams stammers and tries to find a response, and I take my leave. I can't sit there and watch Sherlock tear apart that poor woman, for no other reason than he wants her off his case. Of course, it might have the opposite effect and she might have him sectioned out of spite, but he's probably calculated the probabilities and decided to blackmail her into giving him a good report.

A few minutes later, the door of Sherlock's room opens, and Dr. Williams emerges, her face red and screwed up, choking back tears. I leap to my feet. "I'm sorry," I say helplessly. "I mean…"

"Don't talk to me!" she says angrily, and marches off down the corridor.

I fling open the door, ready to give Sherlock a piece of my mind.

"I think that went rather well, actually, John," Sherlock says cheerfully. "Now, when do you think I'll be allowed to go home?"

**Second chapter yay! Hope you're impressed by speed updating – I was so inspired by all your lovely comments that I wanted to get this done ASAP. Next chapter will probably be about Sherlock returning to Baker Street, and the inevitable arguments and angst that will follow – hooray!**

** Thanks to my lovely reviewers – **

**Sournois**

**Adr1en – see, another chapter! you won't have to exact your terrible plan of revenge now!**

**SyberiaWinx**

**kemokage**

**Glittery-excuse-for-a-Fae**

**misscruel**

**Harpyquin – don't cry! he's alive :D and he's also a pain in the neck, but we'll get over that… **

**and goldeneyedbeatle – cool name btw! **

**And thanks also to anyone who read and enjoyed!**

** Any reviews going spare to encourage me to write more? :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Voila! Another chapter! Sorry this one has taken a bit longer, but lots of snow and impromptu trips to Wales have distracted me :)**

**DISCLAIMER: No, not mine :( Though I would care for them like my own children :) – if I had any…**

**Warnings: More swearing. Sorry again, but the John in my head is inexplicably foul-mouthed :( Then again, I think that he has got a right, considering he has to live with Sherlock :)**

_Sherlock_

John seems unreasonably irritable when I ask him when I can leave, and goes off on a long angry lecture on "Sherlock how can you even be so flippant?" and "it's for your own good" and "they're not going to let you go after you were so bloody obnoxious to that poor woman" and "I don't understand how you can be such a fucking _idiot _sometimes".

I try to listen for approximately twenty-seven seconds, and then give up. There are more important things on my mind.

I am attempting to deduce exactly _why _I tried to take my own life last night.

Of course, the primary answer to the question is blindingly obvious – because John left me. Because he didn't care any more.

Now, I am not so sure of this.

If he does care, then why did he leave me in the first place?

If he doesn't care, then why is he here?

I feel frustrated - irritated that my lack of experience in such social situations has left me so ill equipped to deal with this. I try looking at it as I would a case. I know the outcome – my attempted suicide. I just need to find, as it were, the motive.

I try to focus on my friendship with John. There's no doubt that we are friends, even with my very _very _limited experience with friends. In fact, I consider him my only friend.

I try and consider what sets him apart from my other acquaintances. Lestrade. Molly. Even Mycroft.

I need to imagine a situation roughly equivalent to the events of yesterday.

For example – how would I react if Lestrade were to declare our working relationship over and refuse to give me any more cases, abandoning me to my boredom?

I would be annoyed, certainly. That is the first emotion that comes to mind. Irritated at the extra work he would have inadvertently created for me. More charm and even more manipulation would be necessary in order to secure more cases for myself, preferably through tempting some other DI with the chance of improving their crime statistics tenfold.

I pause. It is peculiar just how like questioning a suspect analysing my own thoughts is. Now I have obtained my instinctive answer to the question, I must explore…

"Sherlock? Have you been listening to a single word I've been saying?"

"No," I say honestly, because although lying is quite often extremely necessary, I don't find it particularly pleasant.

John utters yet another filthy swear word (he knows full well I hate swearing) and bangs out of the room. I watch the door flap shut, and then return to my thoughts.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. My reaction to Lestrade and I no longer associating with each other.

It is interesting that my first reaction is annoyance. When John said he was leaving, it was panic, fear, pain, despondency.

Also, my second course of action would be to replace Lestrade, whereas John…

I freeze, because the answer has suddenly illuminated my mind like a flicker of sunshine on an overcast day.

John Watson is irreplaceable.

It is so glaringly obvious that it shocks me.

Irreplaceable.

I try to probe my feelings further. Obviously, I spend a great deal more time with John that I do with Lestrade. Lestrade and I are, at the most, work colleagues, if you can call us that. John and I are flatmates, and so by definition, we spend a great deal more time together.

However, the idea of replacing John with another flatmate is unpalatable, repulsive even. Even if I managed to find another human being who would not object to my penchant for experiments involving human flesh, they would not be the same as John.

Ever.

The discovery of these feelings has quite startled me. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to think. It has never been so hard before.

Somehow, the idea of losing John is a terrible, gut-wrenching one. Thoughts pound in my brain.

John, packing his bags.

John, his chest peppered with red laser sights.

John (an imaginary one this time) lying in the morgue, eyes closed (or even worse, staring open), being prodded and poked by Molly and her colleagues.

It makes my chest feel tight, and my stomach clenches. Nausea seizes me. My heartbeat has accelerated, as has my breathing.

Absolutely fascinating. The mere thought of being without my blogger is sending me into a semblance of a mild panic attack. I breathe slowly in and out in order to regulate my breathing. This is odd. Extremely odd. I wonder, is this a typical reaction when fearing for the safety of one's friend?

Further investigation is needed.

"Nurse! Nurse!"

A nurse arrives, surprisingly promptly. Her nametag reads "Mandy Brocker". Her demeanour is cold – presumably she has heard what happened to the psychiatrist woman. Unmarried (no ring), though with a boyfriend judging by the necklace half-hidden beneath her collar. Not something she would have chosen for herself – her earrings are plain and practical. He's not well-off though – the slight blemish on the chain where the inexpensive plating has begun to rub off tells me that. Either that, or she's clumsy with her belongings. The former is more likely, since the watch on her left hand is in mint condition, despite it being an old, unfashionable design. Possibly inherited? Badly bitten nails, to the point where she's had to apply a plaster to her index finger. Stress? Or…?

She speaks, putting me off my train of thought.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?" Formal and professional. "Do you need more pain relief?"

"No," I say firmly. I feel like pointing out that since any idiot should be able to tell that I'm an ex (or maybe not so ex) drug-addict, pumping me full of morphine is not a good idea, but restrain myself. I don't fancy having to endure tedious attempts at rehabilitation _again_. "I wanted to ask you a question."

"Yes?"

"If your best friend died, what would be your reaction?"

She makes a face and steps back a pace. I can tell she thinks I'm mad, but then again, who doesn't?

"Humour me," I say encouragingly.

"I'd be upset, obviously," she says, as if I'm stupid. "I'd cry a good bit, I suppose…"

"Would you try and kill yourself?"

She starts, and then her face softens. She thinks she's found the reason why I tried to kill myself. "Oh… Have you recently lost someone?"

"No!" I snap impatiently. "Just answer the question!"

She glares at me. "No. I wouldn't. I'd say that was a fairly extreme reaction."

My heart is thudding uncomfortably fast.

"What if it was your only friend?"

She is starting to look at me as if I am clinically insane by now.

I try to elaborate to clarify the question.

"I mean, say you had other acquaintances, but they were your only true, real friend, and then they died."

"Like I said – I'd be upset. But I'd have to move on, to an extent. Not that I'd forget them, but I'd have to make new friends at some point."

"Right," I say, my brain struggling to process the information.

"Is that all, Mr. Holmes?"

"No – wait!"

She hovers in the doorway. "What?"

"In what circumstances would you commit suicide – associated to the death of a friend, that is? What if more than one died, for example?"

"What kind of a sick question is that?"

Her mood is moving from "mildly disturbed" to being on the verge of losing her temper. Interesting.

"Just answer it!" I plead impatiently.

"Maybe if I was in love with them – I don't know!" she finishes in agitation, clearing wanting to escape.

The truth crashes down on me like a wave, and I don't have time to come to the surface and recover before she is speaking again.

"Mr. Holmes, is that all? Only I do have other patients to attend to, and…"

My brain is whirring at top speed. I need to think about this matter in private, in surroundings where I am relaxed and at home. Hospital will not do. Hence, I need to get back to Baker Street. Hence, I need to persuade the doctors (using reason and logic) to let me go. Hence…

"Could I borrow a pen?"

_John_

I want to get out of this bloody hospital and as far away from Sherlock bloody Holmes as possible. I'll go home, have a shower and a cup of tea, and then spend the night in a bed (my neck's aching fiercely from spending last night dozing on a hard hospital chair).

The man is impossible, I know that full well. It doesn't stop me from wanting to kill him sometimes.

I know that it is pointless being angry with him, but I can't help it. What really grieves me is the fact that now I know that beneath the dazzling, rude, even cruel, genius of Sherlock Holmes, there is another person. Someone who is obviously prone to depression and has tried to kill himself more than once.

I hail a cab and am standing outside Baker Street before I realise that all my worldly possessions are still in the living room of 37 Banbury Way. I turn back to the cabbie, but the taxi has already disappeared into the busy London traffic. Cursing under my breath, I decide that I'll at least have a cuppa here before trying to find another cab.

I unlock the door (thankfully I had had the foresight to keep my key) and step into the darkness of our hall. I reach forward, fumbling against the wall for the light switch, and meet an unexpected barrier at about knee height. Frowning, I finally find the switch and flick it, bathing the room in bright electric light.

Boxes and suitcases litter the hallway, and a small note is pinned to the topmost one.

_Dr. Watson,_

_ I have taken the liberty of having your belongings brought from Banbury Way, as I think that it would be beneficial for you to remain with Sherlock until he has recovered, and to prevent any more attempts on his own life. I have spoken with your new landlord and notified him that he will have to procure a new tenant. I wish you the best of luck._

_ Yours sincerely,_

_ MH_

I don't know whether to fall into a destructive rage or laugh. Damn it all, life is hard enough as it is, without having to worry about staring at Sherlock when he's wearing one of his delicious tight shirts (shit – did I just call his shirts _delicious_?), or about kissing him in a moment of absent-mindedness when going up to bed. That was the whole bloody reason I moved out in the first place – because remaining would most likely cause a very awkward and embarrassing situation for both of us sooner or later. I know full well that although Sherlock is most certainly not a sociopath, it does not mean he will take kindly to the news that his jumper-wearing, ex-Army flatmate has a crush on him.

I decide to laugh. Life is too short to spend much time fretting about the Holmes brothers.

Now feeling a little more good-humoured, I go into our death trap of a kitchen to get some tea. I dig out my favourite mug – upon hearing of my problem of Sherlock leaving potentially deadly experiments in drinking receptacles, Mrs. Hudson had bought it for my birthday. It is personalised – "property of John Watson" is written on it in big letters. Sherlock seems to have taken the hint as far as it is concerned, but I still check it carefully for any suspicious residues before deciding it to be safe.

I switch on the kettle and hunt around for the teabags (making sure to check the packet for any severed fingers). There's no milk, of course, but beggars can't be choosers.

It's funny, just how quiet the flat is without Sherlock. Of course, I've spent many a lonely evening here without him while he's off on a case, but all the same, this is different.

I think of him, in the hospital surrounded by strangers, and feel sorry for him despite myself. Forget the shower – I'll just grab some spare clothes and head back there. In any case, I don't think I can face the bathroom, since the last time I went in there it came complete with a complimentary dying detective. Obviously this may become a problem in the future, since I don't fancy having to use Mrs. Hudson's loo for the rest of my life, but I can't be bothered to worry about it now.

While the kettle boils, I go upstairs and change into new clothes and put on some deodorant, since a shower will not be on the agenda for some time. Then I realise that Sherlock will need some new clothes, since they won't let him out in his hospital gown, and his old clothes are not particularly pleasant – they've probably been incinerated, since they were soaked in blood.

Shuddering slightly, I go cautiously along to Sherlock's room and push open the door.

It is a strange mixture of chaos and regimented order. The bed is messily unmade, and is currently inhabited by a strange experiment involving a flask of what looks like syrup, half a mobile phone, and what I fear is a chunk of mouldering human flesh.

I decide to leave it alone.

In contrast, a chest of drawers that I guess (_Sherlock despises guessing_, some part of my mind comments) must contain his underwear is extremely neat. Somewhat humbled by the organisation of different coloured boxer shorts, and a little embarrassed at going through his pants, I pick out a few pairs and then go to close it.

I notice something. The drawer is much shallower than I originally expected it to be. On a sudden whim, I slide my hand down the back, and brush something with my fingers. I hear a soft click, and a hidden panel slides back.

Typical. Only Sherlock Holmes would have a secret panel in the back of his underwear drawer.

Curious, and feeling rather guilty (though I'm sure Sherlock has no qualms about rifling through my possessions – I'm sure he's done it before, on several occasions) I reach inside, and pull out a few dusty objects.

The first one is an empty syringe, a reminder, I suppose, of Sherlock's past drug habits. I found some cocaine in the flat, not two months ago, and threw it all out. I was furious with him, but he paid little heed to my dire warnings about recreational drug use (I have grown to tolerate his overdosing on nicotine patches). However, the fact that the syringe is covered in a thin layer of dust is promising, and I hope he has kept it as a sobering reminder of what he once was, rather than as a safeguard in case he should turn back to the drugs again. The thought of that magnificent brain driven mad by such vile substances turns my stomach.

The second is a very faded, crumpled photograph of a family. They are obviously posing for a picture – their postures are stiff and formal. The father is severe and clever-looking, with glasses, an aristocratic tilt to his head and a hand laid protectively on the mother's shoulder.

She is an immensely beautiful woman with long black hair plaited perfectly, her face aquiline and noble. However, there is something about her face that is not quite right. Some tightness about the mouth, some sadness in the eyes. And she is thin – unnaturally so, her skin paper-white, her perfect heart-shaped face gaunt, her dark eyes sunken.

The boy standing by her side is in his early teens at most, already slightly chubby, but standing proud and confident, with a superior smile planted on his face.

But it is the second child whose face I cannot look away from.

Sherlock is only five or six years old, and yet he is still instantly recognisable. Dressed in a suit (a suit, at five years old?), it is clear that he is scrawny and underfed, unlike his brother. A mess of dark curls threatens to obscure his face, flopping over one of his eyes. His face, like his mother's, is very pale, his cheekbones prominent. His eyes are fixed straight ahead of him, his penetrating stare already noticeable. He is stood slightly apart from the rest of his family – the distance only just large enough to be perceptible, but still undoubtedly present. However, what I notice most is the bruising that adorns his left cheek. Some is a dark, angry purple still, some paling to yellow-green. It looks painful, and yet there is no expression in that small face.

I feel like I have intruded into something private, and humbly tuck the photograph back into the drawer. The injured face of young Sherlock haunts me, and I try to forget it.

There are various other knickknacks – a small leather-bound notebook, a dusty, old magnifying glass, a tiny swatch of coloured material that I carefully place back into the notebook, and, most oddly, a delicate clay tobacco pipe. These I replace with the reverence I believe they deserve, until I am left holding the last item.

It is a photograph of Sherlock and I. I didn't know he had any photos of the two of us together.

We are sitting in a pub – Lestrade's birthday do. I remember what a job I had trying to persuade Sherlock to come. He eventually agreed, on the dual conditions that I could not get drunk, ("John you're enough of an idiot as it is, without the influence of alcohol further lowering your IQ") or talk to Anderson, who accordingly to Sherlock "kills more brain cells than a shot of pure ethanol". As it happened, I had no intention of doing either, since Anderson behaves like an obnoxious prick most of the time, and I was too afraid of accidentally divulging my personal feelings for Sherlock when I was in an inebriated state. When we got there it was to find that most of the Met was already completely plastered, and Sherlock actually enjoyed himself greatly, as apparently you can glean a great deal of useful information about someone's personality from their behaviour when they are drunk (another reason I never allow myself to be even tipsy in his presence).

And there was also one officer rolling around with a camera.

I peer closer at the picture. Sherlock and I are talking – he is pointing with a long finger at the back of an unknown policeman, and I am laughing, holding an orange juice. Sherlock is wearing a funny little half-smile that I all too rarely see, and his eyes, strangely, are not fixed on the policeman he is pointing to, but instead they are on me. In fact, we are both looking into each other's eyes – a strangely personal moment captured on camera.

I brush my fingers over the shiny paper thoughtfully, pondering as to why Sherlock has it. Somehow, the knowledge that he prizes this photograph as much as a picture of his family means a great deal to me. What is more, this photograph is not covered in dust. It is covered in fingerprints, as if it has been taken out and handled many times. The thought sends a peculiar shiver of warmth through me.

Brushing the thoughts away, I put it back in the drawer and go to Sherlock's wardrobe to start searching for something for him to wear.

When I return to the hospital, it is to find that they have had Sherlock sedated.

According to the dour head nurse, it was because he was in pain. Knowing Sherlock's resistance to any physical sensation, I find this rather unbelievable.

However, the bubbly blonde nurse with pink highlights tells me (between giggling fits) that apparently he wrote an essay of about two thousand words on his bedsheets in green biro pen, explaining why he should be released from hospital, which he then submitted to the consultant on duty, who did not take it well. Additionally, "Mandy", who gave him the pen, apparently is "for the high jump", which the bubbly blonde nurse is pleased about because she's a "right cow"

Feeling a little overloaded with information, I make my way to his room – thankfully I had the foresight to bring my laptop so I can make some extra notes for my blog while I'm waiting for Sherlock to wake up. Obviously, this episode is not one which will be appearing in print, online or not, but I need to write up the Mystery of the Grey Squirrel, which was an interesting case that involved a jewel thief who frequented houses surrounding a busy London park. It also ended with Sherlock leaping headfirst into Thames, which would have been fine, had he not deleted the fact that he could not swim from his brain.

I open the door of his room. It is only five o'clock and yet it is already dark outside. It is less than twenty-four hours since I found Sherlock in a bath full of blood.

He is asleep, his curly head buried in the pillows, a faint frown on his forehead. I can't resist a smile. He looks so angelic when he is sleeping. But it is his personality – a combination of stunning genius and strange innocence – which identifies him, which has made me fall in love with him.

I cross quietly to my seat and sit down with a sigh. Sherlock's hand lies perilously close to mine, clutching at the coverlet like a small child. A terrible temptation seizes close to me, and, unable to resist, I reach forwards and gently touch his hand. His skin is, once more, surprisingly warm. He shifts slightly as I touch him, and I start backwards, flushing. But he doesn't wake – rather, his long fingers twist to accommodate mine, and he murmurs something in his sleep.

I don't understand his words, but I can see, even in the darkness, the faint smile that graces his features.

_Sherlock_

I wake from a strange dream.

In it, John and I were trying to solve the Mystery of the Red Apple, which apparently took place at a zoo. I recall Lestrade was also involved, except that he had been mysteriously transformed into a flamingo.

However, the thing most worthy of note was that John and I were holding hands for the duration of the investigation. I remember that his hand was warm and it made me feel safe.

Shaking myself out of my odd post-waking thoughts, I take the opportunity to look around my room. It is just getting light outside. John is slumped beside me on his chair. Why he didn't go back to his new flat? He'll get terrible backache like that. Interestingly, his hand is stretched out in front of him, lying on the covers, as though reaching for mine.

Would it feel warm, or cool? Would his skin be rough, or smooth?

I realise my hand is reaching for his, and snatch it back, conscious of my blinding stupidity. Touching his hand would most certainly wake him, and be embarrassing for the both of us.

I settle back on to my bed with a tired sigh.

The revelation that I may be in love with John has rather "knocked me for six", as Lestrade would say. It feels like my life has been shifted by an infinitesimal amount, but the effect has been to entirely unbalance my entire reality.

I know the definition of "love", of course. It is an intense feeling of deep affection for someone, which I suppose applies to my feelings for John. Affection is a gentle feeling of fondness or liking. I like John, and would miss him greatly if he was to leave me. Therefore I suppose that in the strict sense, I do love him.

But how does one know for certain? And in any case, that is merely one definition of "love". There are other, more frightening aspects to it. A deep romantic attachment to another.

I bite my lip, irritated by my lack of knowledge of this subject. I have never been in any kind of relationship like _that_. No one but my mother has ever kissed me, and even so, it was only on my head.

I wonder idly what kissing John would be like.

But there is one major stumbling block to this vague fantasy.

John is straight. He went out with Sarah, for heaven's sake, and was disappointed when they broke up. At the time, I was rather pleased, but whether that was because her presence annoyed me or because of some sense of ownership I have over John, I do not know.

I sigh deeply again. Really, there is not room in my brain for these feelings. Indeed, if I were capable of deleting them, I would do so, since they are embarrassing, inappropriate and inconvenient, but I have been unable to erase them from my mind.

I see John stirring, and at once, through force of habit rather than because of any sinister motive, I pretend to be asleep.

_John_

That evening, the doctor who talked to me when Sherlock first arrived comes to examine him again, partly, I believe, because it is apparent that the general consensus of the hospital staff is that the sooner they are rid of Mr. Holmes, the better.

Earlier, he got into a ferocious debate with a teenager with jet-black hair called Izzy (who was wearing so much eye make-up that she looked like a panda), who they brought into his room. She broke her leg while attempting to graffiti a bridge, and Sherlock gave her a lecture on how the type of spray can she was using (he deduced it from the pattern and smell of the paint on her hands) is particularly ineffective. She argued back exceptionally well, I have to say, despite having a vocabulary a quarter of the size of Sherlock's. Eventually the squabbling got so loud that a nurse came in to move her somewhere else, claiming that they were disturbing the other patients.

I try not to smile at the memory of Sherlock's irritated scowl, like that of a small child whose favourite toy has been taken away.

_Sherlock_

I hope John is listening to this ridiculous imbecile of a doctor, since I most certainly am not. He is babbling on about dressings and stitches and eating and other such trivial matters, and I have neither the energy nor the inclination to listen.

"Are you going to be staying with him?" the doctor inquires discreetly, and I prick up my ears.

"Of course," John says promptly, and I struggle to contain my grin.

"Excellent," the doctor says, with a smile in our direction that clearly indicates that he thinks that we are homosexual and is making an effort to prove how unprejudiced he is.

"His brother insisted," John smiles, and my spirits fall. Oh. John is not remaining in Baker Street of his own free will. Of course not. Darling Mycroft has pressured him. I don't know whether to be happy that he is staying with me for a little longer, or disappointed that he clearly still wants to leave me, for whatever reason.

And eventually he gets down to the important bit, which is saying that I can leave, if I sign such-and-such a form. I sign the wretched thing, nod sagely as he informs me that he would recommend counselling if I am prone to such suicidal thoughts, and then beam politely until he leaves us alone.

John gives me a lop-sided smile. "I guess you're pleased to be getting out of here, then?"

"Definitely," I say briskly. "I hate hospitals."

I am pleased that John has brought me some clothes, despite the fact that the jacket and the trousers do not quite match. John goes out while I change. I try not to look at the thick bandaging on my arms. They are still tender, but the doctor said that I was very lucky not to have seriously damaged the muscle structure.

We walk out of the hospital together, and in the bright sunshine, with John at my side, I feel surprisingly glad that I am alive.

**Don't worry, this is not the end :)**

**This chapter kind of didn't go in the direction I intended it to, and hence return-to-Baker-Street will be in the next instalment… I decided this one was long enough as it was, and I didn't want to have to squash other stuff in…**

** Hope Sherlock's self-deducing was OK-ish and you liked any ACD references you may have spotted :) Also many thanks to my beautiful reviewers…**

**gginsc – your wish is granted :)**

**SyberiaWinx – hope there was sufficient fluff in this instalment – managed to fit in some secretive hand-holding and also Sherlock possessing a cute photo of him and John :) Also, you must have noticed that I nicked your idea about the hospital drugging him – thank you and hope you don't mind!**

**XMillieX – glad you enjoyed :)**

**dayja - thanks for pointing out my mistake, how silly of me :) In that case, the Czechoslovakian diplomat will have to have been a Czechoslovakian diplomat when it did exist, and is now just some political guy who has come to see Mycroft for whatever reason :) Sorry about that!**

**Cyberbutterfly – thanks for reviewing, and I agree – I much prefer non-sociopath Sherlock :)**

**AtlinMerrick – glad you liked :) And it will almost certainly end happily, fear not, since I'm not a fan of sad endings :)**

**Sournois – I feel the same way – he is so wonderfully irritating, but that's why we love him :)**

**Adr1en – glad you enjoyed :D**

**doctorcoffeegirl – thank goodness – I'm glad the medical bluffing wasn't too horrifically awful! Hope John's reaction was OK! :)**

**Harpyquin – indeed he is aliiiivveee :) And also a pain in the neck, but we'll forgive him :)**

**And thanks also to those who added it to alerts, etc. I love you all :)**

**Hope you enjoyed (forgive this ridiculously long A/N!) and please keep reviewing (tell me your favourite bit!) – you know it makes me smile and write faster ;) **


	4. Chapter 4

**Another chapter :) This and the next chapter were originally one massive one, but it was just getting too gigantic and convoluted, hence CHAPTER 4 Part II will be perfected and put up tomorrow :) and that will also probably be the final chapter, though I am not at all averse to epilogues…**

**DiSCLAIMER: Still not mine (sob)**

**Warnings: More swearing, again :) Though Cyberbutterfly has convinced me that it's not a problem, so thank you for that :)**

**That's about it really, unless you need a warning for random Sherlock/John hugs :)**

_John_

Sherlock is unexpectedly quiet for most of the cab journey. Bright eyes glare out of the window, analysing the passers-by. A sea of conflicting emotions swirls in my stomach. For some reason I feel irritated at him for earlier – not just for completely ignoring the doctor, but also because he didn't even glance up when I told him I was going to be staying at Baker Street. That annoys me because it's a big deal for me, and it's going to be damned hard, and he just seems to take it for granted.

I cough awkwardly to break the silence. "Are you feeling all right, Sherlock?" I ask quietly. I half expect him to ignore me, but instead he turns and fixes me with that piercing stare. I break eye contact quickly before he notices my breathing has accelerated.

"I'm fine," he says coldly, but continues to stare at me, as if trying to puzzle something out. I feel rather uncomfortable, and decide that maybe making conversation might distract his attention.

"Anyway, Dr. Achebe says that you've been eating well, so…"

A flicker passes through those pale eyes.

"Sherlock!" I moan wearily. "I take it you didn't eat anything, then?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Have you ever tried eating hospital food, John? It is absolutely foul."

"Yes, but if you'd told me, I could have got you something."

Sherlock makes a face and continues staring at me. I shift awkwardly under his gaze.

"So what did you do with the food?"

Sherlock smiles. "Half of it I left out for the chubby nurse whose husband wants her to go on a diet. She wolfed it down when she thought I was asleep."

"How did you know…? Oh, forget it. What about the other half?"

"I put it in my pillowcase."

"Sherlock, that's disgusting! No wonder they all want you out of there!"

Sherlock beams, and I can't resist smiling too. That smile is so intoxicating – I can't help but give in to it.

"So you haven't had anything to eat since…"

I count the days. Today is Wednesday, and Sherlock went into hospital on Monday night. "Since Monday?"

"Sunday afternoon, actually. Molly gave me a HobNob. With dark chocolate on it. It was surprisingly nice, actually."

"Sherlock… I honestly despair of you. You can't _do_ that – it's a wonder you've stayed alive as long as you have!"

"I'll eat later, if it bothers you." Sherlock is still staring at me.

"Too right you will! Dr. Achebe said you were less than 60kg – that's positively dangerous for a man of your height!"

Sherlock sniffs irritably and begins staring out of the window again. I'm not sure whether I'm glad that that piercing glare is off me, or somehow disappointed that he is no longer paying me any attention.

The sunshine dims to twilight as we reach Baker Street – the traffic's bad, and night comes on quickly this time of year. I am looking out of the window myself when I once more sense Sherlock's eyes on the back of my head. I can see in the reflection that he is watching me again.

We reach Baker Street, I pay the cabbie, and we climb out of the taxi. There is a biting chill in the air – I begin shivering at once. Sherlock, despite being skin and bone, doesn't. He never feels the cold, lucky bugger.

I unlock our door and we climb the stairs in silence. Normally, we'd be chatting about a case or about some suspicious-looking character that Sherlock saw earlier who he's sure was one of Mycroft's henchmen, but neither of us seems to have anything to say.

I open the door and then flush as I realise that all my bags are still dumped in the living room. Sherlock doesn't even look at them – he just goes and flings himself on the sofa, pulling out his laptop from underneath it (why can't he keep his laptop somewhere normal?) and starts it up, fingers tapping impatiently.

"I'll er… order the Chinese, shall I?" I ask awkwardly. "I take it you don't fancy going out?"

"No," he says flatly. "You know what I normally have."

Obediently, I go to the phone and order 122, 43, 27 and 54. I know all our takeaway preferences off by heart now.

I glance back at Sherlock, tapping in his password on the laptop.

"I might er… have a quick shower," I say unnecessarily.

"You've got time," he says curtly. "Chinese takeaway takes an average of 23 minutes to be delivered."

"Yeah… OK…"

I grab the bag that contains my toiletries and limp up the stairs, irritated by my cowardice. I should say something to Sherlock - let him know that I'm here if he wants to talk or something (not that I think he would ever consider doing such a thing), rather than continuing this strained silence. Or at least let him know that things are all right between us – that I won't be leaving for the foreseeable future.

I grab my towel and go to the bathroom. I stop suddenly, with my hand on the door handle, concerned by the rush of panic that has suddenly shot through me.

I take a deep breath. This shouldn't be a problem – it's not as though it'll still be full of blood, because if Mycroft has bothered to send people to drop off my stuff, someone will have been brought in to clean the bath. I've been through far worse than this – I survived Afghanistan, for heaven's sake.

I open the door, and my breath seizes in my throat.

Sherlock.

Lying there, wrists slashed, floating just slightly in a bath of red.

But this time his eyes are open and staring, no life in the blue-green-grey depths. It's too late to save him, and I'm frozen, motionless, watching him die.

_Sherlock_

My emails are very disappointing, to say the least.

One from Mycroft. The subject reads "Your Behaviour on Monday".

I delete it without reading it.

One from Lestrade. At first I think he's going to give me a case, but in fact it's instructing me to get better as soon as possible, and that I should stop behaving like a stupid arsehole because it upsets John, and that he won't be giving me any cases until I'm completely well again.

One from Molly. A get-well-soon ecard, with a disturbing number of kisses after her name, and a number of dancing kitten involved in the cheap animation. I shudder slightly.

I snap my laptop shut irritably, and then pause for a moment. Shouldn't the shower be running by now? I wonder what on earth John is _doing_ up here.

"John?" I call.

No answer.

That's not like him.

"John, I want some tea!"

Nothing.

"John, I think the microwave's about to explode!"

Still no answer. That normally brings him sprinting down the stairs three at a time, half-dressed or otherwise. John takes threats to the well-being of the microwave very seriously. We eat (or rather, he eats) far too many microwave meals for the loss of it not to be a significant blow to our way of life.

Rising stiffly from the sofa, I proceed up the stairs slowly. Oh, there's John. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

"John?" I ask crossly. "I was calling you. I wanted tea. You know what happens when I try to work the kettle."

He doesn't speak, or move, or turn around. In fact, he makes no sign that he has heard me at all. How odd.

I shuffle round him so I am looking into his face, and draw back, startled. His face is frozen strangely, his eyes staring. "John? Are you all right?" I ask cautiously, and touch his shoulder. The muscles are tense – I wonder if he is about to have a fit. He is looking right through me, his eyes focussed on the empty bathroom. A little chill runs through me. I remember running the taps, removing my shoes, lying back in the water…

"John!" I say gently. "Can you hear me?"

He still doesn't move.

"John!" I shake his shoulder urgently, and his eyes snap on to mine, and his legs give way. I try to hold him up and so we both end up falling to the floor.

"John, are you all right? John?"

"Calm down, Sherlock… I'm fine…"

"Oh. Good."

We both lie back down on the floor, staring stupidly at the ceiling.

"Why didn't you answer me?" I ask quietly.

"I just kind of… spaced out," John says awkwardly.

"Don't do it again," I say curtly. "I didn't like it."

And then John completely loses it. "_Fuck_, Sherlock!" he snarls, sitting up sharply and scrambling away from me. "I can't believe you! This is down to you, you know! I'm having some kind of bloody breakdown because you go and try and kill yourself and then pretend like it never happened!"

"I'm not pretending it didn't happen," I reply sullenly, because although John being angry is better than John being upset or disappointed, I still don't like it. And besides, I'm not completely sure that John _isn't_ upset and disappointed.

"Sherlock, you bloody well are! Don't you realise any of the consequences your actions have? Don't you realise how I felt when I came back here and found you'd slitting your _fucking _wrists in the _fucking _bath? Don't you realise that I thought you were going to _die_? Why don't you care about anyone else but yourself?"

I feel my face screw up, and hear the words snarl out of my mouth.

"Because no one cares about _me_!"

And then, quite inexplicably, John begins to laugh.

_John_

The statement is so utterly stupid that I can't help myself. Sherlock is still sitting there on the floor outside the bathroom, and there is such a charming combination of anger and bemusement stamped on his face that I just can't restrain the giggles.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock snaps.

"For God's sake, Sherlock – of _course _people care about you! I care about you, Mrs. Hudson cares about you, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly…"

Sherlock snorts and turns away, sulking like a petulant child. "Mrs. Hudson cares about me because I made sure her husband was executed. Mycroft made some stupid promise to my mother before she died that he'd look after me, and I've no doubt that he's regretted it every day since. Lestrade cares because he'd have to do twice as much work if I wasn't around. And Molly cares because she has some strange… _thing _for me which I do my best to discourage, but she'll get over it eventually."

I feel almost like laughing again when I heard Sherlock refer to Molly's crush on him as a "_thing_" (and in such a contemptuous tone, as well), but then I see his expression. His lips are pursed, and if I didn't know that Sherlock Holmes would _never _cry, I would think that he was on the verge of tears. I realise that he really _thinks _like this, that he truly believes no one cares about him. I sit back down heavily beside him.

"Shit, Sherlock, do you really think like that?" I ask quietly.

He snorts in contempt and shuffles away from me, avoiding my gaze. Without thinking, I reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. He freezes.

"You're wrong," I tell him firmly. "We all care about you – absolutely impossible as you are. And even if you don't believe me about the others, trust me when I say that _I _care about you, yeah?"

Sherlock doesn't move a muscle.

"Sherlock? You know I care, right?"

The deafening silence tells its own story. I feel a wave of despair wash over me. To be Sherlock, to feel like this, to think that no one is remotely concerned about you, must be awful. Compassion rises in me, and, although I know it's a bad idea, I wrap my arms awkwardly around the younger man from behind. It's a little uncomfortable because he's sitting with his back to me, and I'm on my knees, but his body is warm, and I squeeze his arm in what I hope is a comforting gesture. There's also another complicating factor in that I feel a strange compulsion to press my lips to his neck, but I firmly resist the temptation.

"I care a lot."

Initially, his body tensed when I first touched him, but after a moment, he relaxes a little in my arms. The movement sends a strange shiver through me. A nervous, warm hand touches me, and I realise he has twisted his head around, and is staring intently into my face. I focus on anything but his eyes, instead choosing to stare fixedly at his nose, which I notice is adorned with tiny freckles.

"I… um… I suppose I… I mean… I care too, John."

I can tell how hard the words are for him to say, and love him all the more for it. Unbidden, my gaze shifts upwards, and I know I am lost from the moment I fall headfirst into the shining depths of his beautiful eyes. They are ice blue, piercing grey, and intriguing green, all at the same time. I feel vaguely intoxicated, and all too aware of just how close we are. If I were to move just a few inches, I could touch my lips to his…

Sherlock turns back so he is once more staring at the wall, and I swallow uncomfortably. Shit, that was close. I just can't seem to think clearly when he looks at me like that.

Unexpectedly, his body relaxes against me, so his back is pressed to my chest, and he lets out a contented sigh.

"I didn't know you liked hugs," I say lamely. He feels so thin, so vulnerable, held to my chest like this, like a fragile doll that might snap at any moment.

He chuckles softly under his breath, and my heart skips a beat.

"I don't receive them very often, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Mrs. Hudson hugs you," I protest feebly.

"Hmmm."

Although my knees ache slightly, and I am still petrified of doing something stupid, like kissing his curly head, I wish we could stay like this forever.

_Sherlock_

John is warm, and surprisingly comfortable. I am interested to discover that I like having his arms wrapped around me. It makes me feel safe. Wanted. It reassures me that he _does _care, after all. I want to ask why he moved out, but sense it's a painful subject, for whatever reason. I'll ask him tomorrow. I don't want to ruin this moment, because I feel warm and safe and comfortable.

John _cares_.

"It's too late for you to have a shower," I murmur, my voice unexpectedly drowsy. "The Chinese will be here soon."

John laughs, and I feel it against my back. It is a nice feeling.

"No, I suppose not. I'll have one after dinner."

"Hmmm."

There is a pause.

"What about going in the bathroom? Will you be all right?"

"I'll have to be," John chuckles. "I'm not peeing in a bucket for the rest of my life."

"No. I suspect it would be less than practical."

John laughs again, and, on an impulse, I turn my head slightly to bury my face in his jumper. It feels soft on my face, and smells reassuringly of John. Surprisingly, the action causes John to stiffen suddenly. I glance up, worried I've done something wrong.

"Sorry, I…"

The doorbell rings. The Chinese is here. Several minutes early. How _irksome_.

_John_

We both stumble downstairs together, and I realise what a bizarre, intimate moment we just shared. While it was happening, it felt perfectly natural, but _I was just hugging Sherlock Holmes_. It feels like a dream, and a rather strange one at that. And then, for a moment at the end, I could have _sworn_ he was nuzzling at my jumper.

I must have imagined it. All the same, since we returned from the hospital, something has changed. It's as though something imperceptible has shifted in our relationship, and I'm not sure who's behaviour has changed, mine or Sherlock's, but it's just _different._

I pay for the Chinese, of course. Sherlock never seems to have cash on him, save for when he's bribing homeless people to give him information. When I go to the kitchen carrying a warm bag of delicious foil containers, it is to find that Sherlock has cleared the table.

By sweeping everything on it into a bin liner.

"I'm starving… Christ, Sherlock – weren't they your experiments?"

He shrugs. "I needed to have checked on them yesterday for them to have been of any use. It's pointless keeping them."

"Fine, whatever…" I set the bag down, and put the kettle on. Sherlock goes through the bag, pulling out the correct packages for each of us, while I grab cutlery from a drawer. Once the kettle's boiled, I pour tea for both of us, adding spoon after spoon of sugar to compensate for the lack of milk. Sherlock frowns slightly, because he knows I know he prefers coffee. However, I feel excessive amounts of caffeine wouldn't be beneficial at the moment.

We sit down and I prise the cardboard lid of the foil container. Tempting steam rushes up out of it, and I dig into the noodles enthusiastically. I'm starving – I haven't eaten a proper meal for ages.

I'm about halfway through my chicken chow mein when I realise that Sherlock hasn't even touched his. I set down my fork with a sigh.

"Sherlock, for God's sake. Eat something."

"I don't want to."

"Tough. I want you to. You'll go into hypoglycaemia at this rate, and I'm not having you fainting again."

Sherlock scowls. He hates being reminded of past weaknesses. "Technically, because they put me on a IV drip in the hospital…"

I stare blankly at him, letting him know he's not winning me over with that argument. He sighs deeply, as though I'm asking him to run a marathon or jump off a bridge.

"John, you know I hate eating."

"Aren't you hungry?"

He hesitates. "A little. But you know it slows my brain down."

I sigh in exasperation. "Sherlock, you're not going to have any cases for days – I won't allow you to, for one thing. Plus, you need to keep your strength up. If there was ever a time when you were going to allow your brain to slow down, it's now."

He grits his teeth in irritation, and spears a single chunk of duck covered in hoisin sauce. As though he's being forced to eat poison (in fact, I've seen him eat poison more willingly), he brings it slowly to his mouth, bites, chews and swallows. He looks up at me, like a child waiting for praise.

"Go on," I say firmly.

He snorts in annoyance, flinging his fork down. "John!" he snaps. "I don't want to eat! I'm an adult, and it's my decision!"

"Fine," I say, equally stubborn, laying down my fork. "Then I won't eat either."

His eyes flicker. "But you're hungry."

"So are you."

"But you said you were starving," he accuses me. "You need to eat."

I raise an eyebrow at him, and he stops, irritated at being caught out by his own argument. "I'll eat if you do," I say firmly.

"But John, you know if you don't eat you'll just be even more crabby and tired than usual."

I ignore him. I know he's right, but I sense this is the only way to persuade him. It's a battle of wills that for once, I think I'm going to win.

We sit in silence for a few more minutes, and eventually Sherlock takes up his fork again, fixing me with a venomous grimace. "Fine."

"Good," I reply, though I watch him eat a few mouthfuls to make sure he's keeping up his end of the bargain before I start eating again. He watches me with a dark glare, but I keep up an amused grin for the rest of the meal. It's very rare that I win an argument with Sherlock, and I'm going to savour my victory.

I finish first, and sit and watch him. He eats like a bird, popping only tiny amounts of food into his mouth at a time. I'm not sure why I find watching him eat so intriguing – maybe because it reminds me that he is, after all, human. He bites, chews, jaw working, and then swallows, his throat bobbing a little. I find the process inexplicably captivating.

"I don't think I've eaten so much in one sitting for years," he confesses, and I grin despite myself.

"Come on – what d'you want to do? Watch some crap telly?"

He gives another one of his dazzling grins, like I've just asked him whether he'd like to go and track down a serial killer. The idea that watching rubbishy telly with me produces the same reaction makes my face light up in response.

"If you wish, John."

We decide to watch a repeat of a trashy quiz show, after much channel-flicking. Surprisingly, Sherlock and I are of roughly the same ability when it comes to answering the questions. True, if it's anything to do with chemistry, or obscure murders of the 14th century, or law, or even a complex mathematical calculation that has to be performed on the spot, then I've got no chance against him. But his knowledge of politics, anything remotely related to the solar system, sport, celebrities, geography outside London, and popular culture is next to non-existent.

After nearly an hour of shouting out the answers at the contestants (who are rather thick, loath as I am to admit it to Sherlock, who told me they were all idiots the moment we switched the TV on), the show ends and we manage to find a crime drama on another channel. Sherlock figures it out before the murder's even been committed, of course, but allows me to guess before comprehensively proving me wrong. Then we watch the rest of it just for the hell of it, and so Sherlock can show that he was right.

By the time that finishes, I reluctantly conclude that I'm going to doze off if I stay on the sofa much longer. I get up, wish Sherlock a sleepy goodnight – "G'night, S'lock" - and stumble up to my bed.

_Sherlock_

I remain downstairs, thinking. I've enjoyed this evening with John, despite the absence of a case. Being with him is _good_. Although the trick with the Chinese was a little underhand, I can't fault its effectiveness, and I feel indulgently full.

I haven't thought about it before – haven't had the _time _to notice, but I really like spending time with John. It's a brief respite from my spinning thoughts, a chance to forget about Sherlock Holmes the insane detective and become Sherlock, John's friend. Like earlier, when the quizmaster asked what the capital of the state of Alabama was, and I said 'Canada' in a panic, which sent John into fits of laughter. Normally, I would have been annoyed, because I _hate_ getting things wrong, and I _hate_ people laughing at me. But with John, it's OK. I like making John laugh.

_John_

I wake suddenly, and glance blearily at the watch I wore to bed, just in case. (Old habits die hard, I suppose).

3.24am. Dear God.

A muffled yelp reaches my ears, and, instantly awake – Army instincts, once more – I throw off my duvet, grab my gun from underneath the bed, and pad softly to the doorway, heart in my mouth.

Another strangled yell, followed by a strange whimper, and I realise the noises are coming from Sherlock's room. I leap through the door, gun held aloft, ready to beat off any intruder who has dared to attack Sherlock. But there is no one there, only Sherlock, squirming in his bed, shaking like a leaf, eyes clenched shut, drenched in sweat, moaning in terror. His arms, still swathed in bandages, are clenched up to his chest.

I freeze. I've had enough nightmares myself to recognise the signs, and yet the sight of Sherlock in the grip of one chills me. I notice tear-tracks on his gaunt cheeks, agony scrawled on his face, and still I hesitate, paralysed by indecision.

_Sherlock_

_John and I are chasing the dark figure down the alleyway, when suddenly the figure swerves and there is a horrible _crack_._

_ John falls to the floor and I spin on my heel and run back to him._

_ A neat hole in his stupid jumper. Dark blood welling up through the soggy strands of material that remain. He lies quiet as I fling myself down beside him. His face is cold as I touch it. I hold him in my arms, and tell him that I love him, but it's too late. The life drains out of him, and his head flops sideways, and I am left clutching the bloodied husk of the man that was John Watson._

_ The loss is terrible and piercing. I've been shot before, and yet that pain is nothing to this. I rock backwards and forwards in the alleyway, holding him against my chest, tears pouring down my face._

_ And then I am standing in the morgue, and Molly is talking to me, and then she unzips the nearest body bag and John's dead face stars back at me, his wistful brown eyes accusing me…_

_ The funeral, watching the coffin descend into the ground, reading his boring grey headstone._

_And then the grief overwhelms me again, and I collapse on the ground and sob angrily, tearlessly, because there are no tears left in me to cry…_

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

_John_

He wakes suddenly, sitting bolt upright in his bed, so we are almost nose-to-nose. He inhales – a deep, shuddering breath, and then his eyes meet mine. Before I know it, shaking cold hands are running over my arms, as though checking I am real.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

He nods impatiently, concentrating on the task at hand. When he seems to have finally convinced himself of my existence, he collapses back on to the bed, chest heaving.

"Bad dream?" I ask cautiously, a little disturbed by his actions.

He nods, swallows, and glances back up at me.

"Did I wake you?"

"Yeah, you were yelling…"

He shudders, running his spidery hands over his face.

"Sherlock, are you sure you're OK?"

Wordlessly, he reaches up and grasps my hand helplessly. "It was just a nightmare," he says, so quietly that I can barely hear him. "Just a nightmare…"

"Do you want me to… erm… stay with you?" I catch myself, realising how that must have sounded. "Sorry, I didn't mean… I'll go…"

I turn to leave, but then a barely audible whisper reaches my ears.

"Please…"

I turn back, and, on an impulse, go to sit on his bed, setting my gun down on the floor. I take one of his cold, shaking hands in mine and meet his pale, trusting gaze.

"It's OK, I'll stay here. Get some sleep, Sherlock."

Aware that I am probably the only person he has allowed to get this close to him, emotionally or physically, I watch as his eyes drift slowly shut and the crushing grip on my hand lessens.

**As I said, next chapter will be up tomorrow (probably) :)**

** All the same, send me a review, because not only will it bring joy to my heart, but it will also make me type EVEN FASTER :) And tomorrow's instalment will contain the long-awaisted KISS, so hold on to your hats :) Sorry if Sherlock and John are swerving in and out of character, I just can't help myself :)**

** So… thank you to all you reviewed – I would write little messages to all of you but I really want to get on typing the next chapter, so sorry about that! SyberiaWinx – I will indeed join your forum, if I can work out how (I'm unfortunately rather technologically inept…) – sorry!**

** Please please review - tell me your favourite bits, yell at me for not writing quickly enough, etc… Your choice! Hope you enjoyed! xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Aha! I promised, and here it is – what more is there to say? :)**

**DISCLAIMER: The situation hasn't changed since last night – still not mine :/**

**Warnings: Swearing, and mentions of previous Sherlock-suicide attempts (sorry for slipping another chunk of angst). However, there is also snuggling! and kissing! Woohoo! Hope that makes up for it – enjoy! **

_Sherlock_

When I wake, I feel unusually warm. Normally, in the mornings I am freezing, partly due to my habit of kicking my duvet to the bottom of the bed during the night. I am still trying to work out quite why this is not the case today, when I become conscious of somebody else in my bed.

My immediate reaction is to stiffen, but then I realise the intruder is none other than John, and relax again. The events of last night come flooding back to me, and I shudder at the memory. That dream felt so horrifically real, and the relief that came sweeping over me when I established John was not a hallucination and the whole thing had been a product of my overactive imagination was immense.

Now, for whatever reason, John is sleeping in my bed. More to the point, my arms are wrapped around him comfortably, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. My head is pressed to his chest, which is unfortunate, since I want to observe his facial expression when he wakes. However, there is no doubt that it is _sinfully _luxurious to be lying there, listening to little whispery snores issuing from John's mouth, bathing in his presence.

It was clear what must have happened. He came into my room last night in order to comfort me, and then had succumbed to exhaustion while waiting for me to fall asleep. Nature and an instinct to embrace a warm human body were clearly responsible for our current state of being.

Somehow, I don't find it objectionable in the slightest. To be able to listen to John breathing, to be able to hear his heart beating, to be able to share in the warmth of his body, must surely be one of the greatest privileges on Earth. It just feels _right_.

Last night I found my underwear drawer was not arranged as it was normally, and realised John had found my little stash of secret items. No doubt he'll be curious. Maybe I'll mention it later.

I wonder what he will say when he wakes up. He'll be embarrassed, no doubt, because he's straight and straight men don't wake up cuddling their male flatmates, but he'll get over it. I briefly consider getting up to save him the inevitable awkwardness, but quickly decided against him. I am, by nature, extremely selfish, and nothing is going to move me from my current position.

_John_

I swim gradually back into consciousness. I feel incredibly relaxed and comfortable – how long have I been asleep? I stretch slightly, and freeze. I am sharing a bed with someone. I open my eyes, and find, to my horror, that my face is full of ebony curls.

_Fuck_.

My sleep-drugged brain doesn't know how, or why, but somehow I am snuggled up with the world's only consulting detective.

Snuggled up with _Sherlock fucking Holmes_.

Somehow, the words "snuggle" and "Sherlock" shouldn't even be present in the same sentence.

I realise that I must have fallen asleep last night, in his bed. Dear God. I vaguely remember my head hitting the pillow, and thinking that I should get up, but clearly I had never acted on that thought. I pause, assessing my position. My arms are wrapped about Sherlock's shoulders, my face buried in his hair. Sherlock's head is tucked down, so his face is snuggled _(stop using that damn word!)_ into my chest. My body is curled protectively around his. A pair of lanky arms is about my waist, and our legs are tangled together.

I exhale slowly. Maybe, if I can somehow extricate myself from Sherlock's octopus-like limbs, I can escape without him waking up, and not have to…

"John? Are you awake?" That normally sharp, impatient voice has become lazy and beautifully languorous.

"Um… yeah… Morning, Sherlock…"

"Mmmm." He sighs, and yawns luxuriously. "I heard your breathing change tempo."

Shit. He's been awake for some time, analysing the speed of my breathing. A hot blush rushes to my face.

"Um… D'you have the time?"

"Hmmm… 10.53. I can't say I've ever slept for so long. "

I swallow, with difficulty. "I'd better get up – we'll need to pop to Tesco to grab some stuff…"

Sherlock groans in protest as I disentangle myself, and, flushing scarlet, I flee from his room. I stagger down the stairs and fling myself on to the sofa, clutching my head in anguish. It's bad enough that I've just spent the night with Sherlock, though not in _that _sense, but the fact that Sherlock seemed to find it so natural is even more disturbing. The poor man is probably so starved of human contact that he doesn't realise what's _normal _and what's not. And two grown men who are most certainly not in a relationship of _that _kind not only sleeping in the same bed, but also managing to entwine themselves like a couple of bloody octopuses is _not _normal.

I exhale slowly, trying to quell my rising panic, and that's when I spot the carrier bags on our kitchen table. For a moment I wonder whether Sherlock was up experimenting in the night, but then I see the note on the edge of the table.

_To John,_

_ Heard you two came back yesterday evening and thought you probably wouldn't have much in the way of supplies so popped out to the supermarket this morning and got you some of the necessities, though remember it's just the once – I'm not your housekeeper! Hope Sherlock gets well soon – I know you'll look after him. You're welcome to pop downstairs and visit any time you like,_

_ Mrs. H._

A smile spreads over my face, despite myself. Mrs. Hudson never fails to mother us, especially Sherlock, whom she seems to think of like a lost puppy that she needs to look after. At any rate, it'll save us a trip to the shops, the idea of which I was certainly not relishing. Sherlock and supermarkets are, in my opinion, a fairly dangerous combination.

I put the kettle on and go cautiously upstairs to get dressed, though fortunately Sherlock does not leap out of his room like a jack-in-a-box. Upon returning downstairs, I find Sherlock going through the carrier bags with interest, scowling at their contents.

"John, what in God's name are _Oreos_?"

I laugh, despite my embarrassment at seeing him again, fully dressed of course, and showing no signs that he was hugging me like an oversized teddy bear not ten minutes ago. "I'll show you after breakfast."

"Can we eat them _for _breakfast?"

"Certainly not. D'you want tea?"

"Please."

He pads into the sitting room like some kind of human panther while I make the tea, with _milk_, thank God. When I return to the sitting room with two steaming mugs he's already tapping away at his laptop with a concentrated expression. Without looking at me, he accepts the tea and swigs it down in one scalding gulp. I sip at mine, frowning with disapproval as his disrespect for my favourite beverage.

After a few minutes, Sherlock flings his laptop down with a theatrical cry. "Absolutely nothing, John! No emails, no cases on my website, nothing!"

"You do need to rest," I remind him, and he sends me a black scowl.

"John, what good is rest if I go _mad _with boredom?"

I stop to think for a moment. We've never really been in this position before – weekends are spent like the rest of the week, and we never really _stop_ for any length of time. Save for the odd evening spent watching rubbish telly, we rarely have any time in which Sherlock hasn't got a case. When he _does _have a case, we spend every available minute cataloguing evidence, working out clues, arguing with Lestrade, insulting Anderson, and chasing after the culprit.

I realise Sherlock is watching me like a small child, waiting for me to provide entertainment. I shrug. "We could… go for a walk?"

"John, of all the tedious, mundane, dull, unimaginative, unstimulating, unoriginal ideas you could have come up with…"

_Sherlock_

I actually enjoyed our walk much more than I had anticipated. Then again, with my newfound knowledge that I am in love with John, I have no doubt that I would find any activity we participated in together most absorbing.

We walked to the park down the road, where we sat on a bench, and I deduced people's occupations as they walked past, and John checked if I was right by pretending to be someone conducting a survey, a pastime that we both found most amusing. Then we had breakfast (or was it lunch?) in a small café, and I ate something purely because I liked the way that John smiled when I did so.

Then John took me to a bookshop, ("because you need something to occupy that mad brain of yours, Sherlock") and we bought a few detective stories for John and a book about the solar system for me, just in case it should crop up again in another case.

Finally, we returned to Baker Street, noses and ears red from the cold, flinging off coats and scarves and chafing our hands before the radiators. Then I tried an Oreo, and found them really quite appetising, and even more so when John revealed that they could be dipped in milk.

Once our Oreo feast is over, John sits me down on the sofa, telling me he needs to check my stitches, and I reluctantly acquiesce.

_John_

Sherlock is surprisingly quiet and cooperative as I gently undo his bandages to reveal the wounded flesh beneath. The sight of his injuries sends a shiver of sympathy and dread through me, though I force myself to examine them carefully to check for any inflammation.

_Sherlock_

John's surgically gloved fingers are very warm on my skin as he peers carefully at my arms. Part of me wants to watch his every movement, each concerned brush of his hand, and part of me wants to shrink away from his kindness and hide my mutilated arms from sight.

John sighs in relief as he draws away. "They're not infected, thank God, and they're healing well."

He glances up at me, and I am struck by the attentive sympathy in his brown eyes. I half-expected to see disgust, and berate myself for doubting John, looking away from his eyes quickly. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

I nod briskly, and only glance back down when he goes to fetch some antiseptic with which to tend to my arms. I hate the long ugly red slashes, held together by the dark stitches. I hate the weakness and the misery that they represent. I hate how they remind of how pathetic and worthless and useless and wretched I can feel. Without thinking, I dig my nails into my left wrist, wincing at the fiery pain, and yet exulting in the feeling of power.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock!"

John yanks my hand away, and holds it tightly, away from my abused flesh. I realise I am breathing hard.

"What the _fuck _were you doing?"

I turn my head away, not wanting to see the anger and disappointment in his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

I turn to face him miserably, and find that his eyes are full of warmth and tenderness, not anger. I have a sudden urge to lunge forwards and bury my face in his shoulder and sob my heart out.

"Sorry," I murmur.

"Let me see…"

He brushes my left wrist with a feather-light touch, giving me a moment to swallow back the ridiculous tears in my throat.

"This'll sting a little," he warns me, and I nod submissively.

A moment later, pain shoots through my arm and I hiss sharply. Were it anyone but John tending to my wounds, I might well have punched them for not giving me more warning.

But it's John, and I could never hurt him.

_John_

I watch Sherlock worriedly as I gingerly dab his arms with the antiseptic. His behaviour troubles and distresses me sometimes – that terrible self-destructive streak that threatens to overwhelm him. I wonder if he were like this as a child, and remember the photograph I found the other evening. What was his childhood like? I know so little about him, I realise.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asks hoarsely.

I smile and shrug.

"I know you found those things in my room the other day," he says quietly, and I start, glancing up into smiling pale eyes.

"I was… Looking for some underwear… To take into the hospital…" I say quickly, and a smile twitches at his lips.

"So? What were you thinking just now?"

I sigh, realising I am beaten.

"I was just wondering… About your childhood."

Sherlock looks vaguely surprised, though I expect it is probably put on for my benefit. He knows I find it disconcerting when he apparently reads my mind.

"What about it?"

I see a real opportunity to talk with Sherlock, to understand something deeper beneath the genius intellect.

"Mycroft mentioned that your mother killed herself," I say abruptly, and Sherlock stiffens.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have…" I begin to apologise, but Sherlock waves an unconcerned hand.

"It doesn't matter. I can't blame you for your curiosity."

He takes a deep breath, and begins to talk in that deep, clear voice, staring into space.

"My father was a great deal older than my mother. He was a doctor and a politician. I can't remember him very well, to be honest, but I gather he was well known within his particular spheres of influence. My mother was a teacher in a London secondary school."

He pauses for a moment, and I dab a little more antiseptic on his arm. He growls a little in pain, but waves aside my apologies with a long-fingered hand.

"When I was born, Mycroft was seven years old, and already recognised as a child prodigy. He was popular with teachers and pupils alike – a genius. He was destined for great things. And so I strived to be the opposite of him."

I smile, because I can well imagine Sherlock wanting to be anything but like his brother.

"My parents quickly realised I equalled Mycroft's singular intelligence, if not exceeded it. But I was an outcast at school – I was deliberately obnoxious and unpleasant to my teachers. I was suspended on several occasions."

He hesitates. "My early childhood was nonetheless relatively happy. I adored and idolised my mother, as did Mycroft. My father spent much time away from the family on business. When he did come back, he tended to drink a great deal."

He pauses again for a moment.

"Those bruises… on your face… In the photograph…" I murmur. "Did he…?"

Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, and nods.

"My mother tried to stop him, but he would get so _angry_."

I feel a burst of wrath towards this man who dared to hurt Sherlock… I picture the little boy from the photograph, cowering… I wince in sympathy, wanting desperately to hug the bony man before me, but resisting the urge since I know it would probably embarrass him.

Sherlock is still talking. "When I was six years old, I realised that my mother had begun to… change. She… twitched sometimes, and she wasn't as… graceful as she used to be. She was irritable too, and she liked to put things in order."

He swallows – his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. "When Mycroft came home from boarding school, I told him and he made her go to the doctor's. They said she had Huntington's disease."

I close my eyes for a moment, sharing in Sherlock's pain.

"Her body would shut down until she had to be fed through a tube, until she couldn't even breathe. And worse, her mind would go, until she was a shell of what she was, until she wouldn't even remember our names. Father made us be tested, but neither Mycroft nor I had inherited the gene. We were lucky."

Sherlock swallows again.

"She said she didn't want to be a burden on us, so she took some pills – I don't even remember what they were, and said goodbye to us. She told Mycroft to look after me. She told me to stay out of trouble. She told us both not to fight. And then she just… died."

"Shit, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

Pale eyes burn into mine. "I wanted to tell you. I've never told anyone before."

There is silence for a moment, and then Sherlock speaks again. "You want to know about when I tried to kill myself before, don't you?"

I manage a strangled chuckle as I realise he's read my thoughts again. "Look, Sherlock, I know this must be hard for you, and I don't want to push you into…"

"When I was fifteen I tried to hang myself in the gymnasium," Sherlock says. His voice is clear, and he sounds almost bored. "I found life… tedious. A PE teacher found me and they took me to hospital. They wanted to lock me up, but Mycroft was an adult by then, and already making a name for himself in high places, so he got me out. On my twenty-first birthday, I deliberately overdosed on heroin. Nobody even knew about it. I woke up maybe days later and found I was still alive."

I begin to apply fresh bandages to his arms, being as gentle as possible so as not to hurt him.

"When I was twenty-five, I jumped off a block of flats," he continues blandly. "I was practically off my head on cocaine, but I knew well enough what I was doing. I broke my back, but I lived. Mycroft was furious. He made me go to hospital, and they tried to give me counselling. I exposed three extra-marital affairs and an illegitimate child. They threw me out after that."

He glances down, as if he'd forgotten I was there. I fasten the last bandage in place, and look up at him, willing him to go on.

"The last time (before Monday, that is), was a few days before I was thirty. My landlady at the time came back unexpectedly early from a trip to Norfolk and found me with my head in her gas oven."

"Oh, Sherlock…"

I have been restraining the impulse, but I can't help it – I reach out and hug him, resting my chin on his shoulder. Then I hear him speak, so quietly that I barely hear it.

"John, why did you leave me?"

I draw back slightly, and observe his white face. His pale eyes search for answers in mine, and I turn away, afraid of what he might guess from my expression.

"Sherlock, I can't really… I don't want to say…"

"I want to know," Sherlock says curtly, and there is a touch of command in his voice, a touch of the old, dominant Sherlock.

I find I am pacing the room, trying desperately to think of a lie that he'll swallow, and knowing there isn't one. I feel regret rise up in my stomach, because today has been amazing, just as being with Sherlock always is, and I can't imagine losing that. I don't want to have to think about life without him, but the alternative is unthinkable. How could I stay here, with him knowing the way I feel about him?

"Please, Sherlock, just leave it, honestly…"

"Tell me!"

I grit my teeth, and turn to face him.

"OK, look Sherlock, the thing is… I… I mean, I've realised… I've realised I feel… I have feelings…"

Sherlock looks perplexed, and I know he's going to interpret what I'm saying wrongly, and drag out the torment, and I know I've got to finish it now. And some, bitter, twisted part of me thinks that if this is the only chance I'm going to get, I may as well make the most of it.

So I wish goodbye to our friendship, march over to the sofa and kiss him on the lips.

_Sherlock_

John moves towards me suddenly and everything slows down. My words fade and vanish in my throat, my voice giving out with a soft gasp. I feel my heart beating violently and I feel a blush rising to my cheeks. He seems almost to radiate heat, giving off a kind of glow that makes my breathing judder. His presence is like a heady, intoxicating fragrance that I can't escape from.

His lips touch mine, and my mind shuts down.

I had tried to imagine what kissing John might be like, but this is like nothing I could have anticipated. How could I have imagined the tingling burn of his lips on mine, the taste of tea and Oreos? His lips are soft, and warm, and moist, and their touch on mine is enough to make me dissolve into a pool of whimpering pleasure. His hands, so gentle, brush my face; touch my hair, his fingers carding through my dark curls.

My eyes close in bliss, and I stop thinking and just focus on the sensations. They are beyond anything I have ever experienced before, better than cocaine, better than solving a difficult case. This is like _flying_. It takes my breath away, and my head lolls helplessly as the feel of John's mouth on mine overwhelms me. I know I should respond, but my body has been stunned into some kind of paralysed stupor. I feel dizzy, almost light-headed. I can barely remember my own name, let alone manage coherent, rational thought. Dear God, if I'd known it felt like this, I would have kissed John long ago…

He draws back, and some measure of sanity returns to me, though I still find it difficult to manage words.

And that's when I see that he's crying.

_John_

Oh God, oh God…

I stagger away from Sherlock, realising that I may have just destroyed our friendship forever. Sure enough, Sherlock looks so lost and bewildered that it brings tears to my tears. What have I done?

Sherlock touches his lips, still looking confused. "No one… No one's ever kissed me before."

"Oh fuck…" I turn away from him, not wanting to see that terrible innocence scrawled on his face, not wanting to see the reminder of what I've just taken from him. Not only have I taken advantage of and violated my friend, but I've also taken his first kiss. Shit, call me a hopeless old fool, but for me, a first kiss is supposed to be something special, sacred. And I've taken it from him, in a moment of selfish greed. And what's worse, I can still taste the deliciousness of his mouth on mine, can still imagine the soft fragrance of his body, the feel of his pale skin. And I still want him, worse than ever, but now I know I can never have him, and that makes the longing even worse.

Sherlock is still watching me, and I can't bear to meet his eyes, to confront the truth of the crime I have committed.

"John… I don't understand…"

He sounds so hurt and baffled that it breaks my heart.

"John…"

"What is there to understand?" I snap, spinning around. "Fuck it, Sherlock – I just kissed you! Doesn't that explain anything?"

"Evidently that tells me that you are attracted to me, but I don't understand why you are crying instead of kissing me again." He pauses, and then speaks quietly, his eyes lowered. "Did I not do it right?" Fear flashes across his face. "I'm sorry – I didn't know what to do…"

My mouth gapes open, and a flicker of hope rises in me before I force myself to shoot it down again.

"Sherlock, if this is just a ploy to get me to stay, then… I'm sorry, and I don't want to leave, but we can't carry on after this, and…"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and tuts at me, and I freeze.

_What?_

"John, you continue to confound me with your idiocy. I take it my inexperience was not a deterrent, then?"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? For God's sake…"

"John, _must_ you insist on spouting drivel, or will you consent to kissing me again? Maybe I can improve my technique if I am able to practice."

I stop dead, shocked into silence. "You… You mean…?"

"I've known I was in love with you since yesterday morning, John," Sherlock says tersely. "Really, you must learn to keep up. I understand that intellectually I am obviously superior, but I would have thought even you…_oh…_"

I rudely interrupt him in the middle of his speech by crashing my lips against his. His hands grab feverishly at my shoulders, drawing me in closer, and I allow myself a delighted grin before lunging in again. I touch his face, those delectable cheekbones, as I have wanted to do for so long…

_Sherlock_

One moment, John is crying, and the next, he is pinning me to the back of the sofa, and I can't breathe, I can't think, I can only feel, and it's the most wonderful feeling in the world.

John's fingers in my hair.

John's hands, stroking at my cheeks.

John's lips, moving against mine.

John's hand, brushing against my chest…

He draws back again, and I catch my breath. John looks thoroughly charming with his hair messed up, his cheeks flushed. Not to mention with that stupid beaming grin plastered across his face. A moment later, I realise I am exactly the same state – hair falling over my eyes, heart hammering. I'm even wearing the same stupid grin.

John reaches up a hand and brushes it thoughtfully along my cheek, moving a lock of hair, and I shiver again. He smiles.

"John, I said that was my first kiss…"

He nods, a spasm of regret and sorrow passing over his face, but doesn't speak.

"There's no one on Earth I'd rather have kissed first," I say quietly, and squeeze his warm hand.

He grins again. "We've both been idiots, haven't we?"

"Hmmm," I agree. "I was positive you were straight."

He rolls his eyes, smirking. "How could the great Sherlock Holmes miss something like _that_?"

"You _did _go out with Sarah," I remind him. "That did throw me a little."

He smiles. "I was trying to distract myself from you. It's not ideal, having a crush on your flatmate, particularly if he's male and seems to have no interest in pursuing a relationship of any kind."

"And? Did it work?"

"Well, you did rather sabotage our first date," John chuckles. "And I found that whenever she was there, try as I might, I couldn't take my eyes off you."

I smile back, because the thought of John thinking about me instead of Sarah gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my stomach, and it's nice.

John's fingers reach up again to stroke my hair, and the nice feeling intensifies. I feel like a starving man who has just realised that he has been denied of food all his life, and who has just caught sight of a banquet. I desperately want to touch John, kiss him again, tear off that frankly awful jumper, and yet I can't decide which one to do first, so I stay motionless.

John smiles and settles the matter for me, sliding his body on the sofa so I can tip backwards into his lap, half lying on him, my hair within easy stroking-distance. I watch the upside-down John blearily, wondering whether it would be possible for us to share a bed again tonight. I have decided that waking up with John is _wonderful._

"We're going to take this slowly," John murmurs, as if reading my mind, and I smile. "And by the way, you are most certainly too thin. Kissing you is very uncomfortable when you have such terribly jutting, bony hips. I'm going to have to force feed you marshmallows, or something."

I continue to smile, despite not quite knowing what marshmallows are (though I'm sure John will soon remedy this deficiency in my knowledge), because John isn't terribly jutting and bony. He is deliciously muscular and compact, and I want to kiss every inch of him, to observe him and record his reactions. I wonder if John is having similarly immoral thoughts about me, and then try and put the thought out of my mind, because even John kissing me on the mouth is enough to make my brain shut down spontaneously, and I don't want to risk damaging my intellect permanently. At least, not yet.

John runs cautious fingers over the fresh bandages on my arms, and I notice he is frowning. "It's awful something this horrible had to happen for us to realise exactly how we feel about each other," he says softly, and our eyes meet.

"I'm sorry, John," I murmur.

"I'm sorry too." He kisses my left wrist gently, and although the bandage dulls the sensation a good deal, I still feel a bolt of electricity shoot me.

"So you'll be staying here, then?" I ask John teasingly, and he smiles and kisses me briefly on the cheek. Even that's enough to make me forget how to breathe for a moment, and he smirks at my reaction.

"Forever. If you'll have me," John replies, and it's the best answer I could ever hope for.

"Of course I'll have you, you imbecile."

**Ooh, I'm so happy and smiley – that's what writing about happy!smiley! Sherlock does to you :)**

** Thank you to my gorgeously quick-off-the-mark reviewers – XMillieX, Cyberbutterfly, gginsc and Atlin Merrick – honestly you actually did encourage me to up my typing speed :)**

** XMillieX – you think you've got warm fuzzies? They are practically taking over my brain :) Hope you enjoyed!**

** Cyberbutterfly – actually I was just trying to think of places you could hide food in a hospital room, and in the pillowcase was the first place I thought of – I'm just strange like that :) And my butt has been truly moved and my promises kept – happy? :)**

** gginsc – thank you! :)**

** Atlin Merrick – see, ask and you shall receive! He shall eat marshmallows with John, and be happy :) The kiss is here – hope your brain is still intact :) And by the way, your review actually made me laugh out loud, so thank you for that :D**

** Not really sure if this is going to carry on any longer, as I thought it could end quite nicely there, but any alternative ideas for epilogues, etc, would be much appreciated! **

** Please review and tell me if it was OK (I know they were probably both hopelessly OOC every now and again, but it's inevitable with me – I just get carried away!) and your favourite bits!**

** Much love and Christmas wishes, from ultraviolet128 :) xxx**


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